Its Too Cold Outside
by sherlorq
Summary: It's the day of John's wedding to Mary, but Sherlock isn't being the best man he's supposed to be.


If someone had asked Sherlock four years ago where he thought he would be with John, he would have answered the same as everyone thought: solving crimes at 221b Baker Street. It's what they had always done, and it's what they thought they would always be doing. Together, they were an unbeatable duo, even if John was only there to keep Sherlock company. This had sparked ever so many rumours about their relationship, all of which were true, but denied anyway. Yes, John loved Sherlock. Sherlock loved John too. It was plain to see, as much as they tried to hide it from the public. John had tried to hide it from Sherlock too, but he had underestimated Sherlock's abilities. John truly believed Sherlock was completely oblivious to all emotion, but he turned out to be wrong. Sherlock knew exactly how John was feeling.

Ask Sherlock where he stood three years ago, and he would tell you he was stood on top of St Bartholomew's, prepared to die to save the lives of his three closest people. Most men would have panicked in his situation, but then again, Sherlock wasn't most men. John was the brave soldier he had always been, and Sherlock was the brave hero he had never been. Sherlock knew he had to save them; there was no doubt in his mind. But a life without John? Unbearable. Perhaps dying was the best solution? Sherlock refused to think that, and he certainly refused to leave John alone. Fake suicide was the final plan and it worked brilliantly. Everyone believed he was dead. John was safe.

Don't ask Sherlock where he was two years ago, because he always go quiet when he is asked what he did for the two years he was alone.

Instead he will happily skip to what happened one year ago, and the day he returned. Finally, they were reunited. Neither of them was alone, but they lived as the friends they began as.

Ask Sherlock where he is now, and he will tell you to leave the room as John was getting dressed into his suit. He will slowly close the door, with a hand lingering on it as he longed to be on the other side of it, away from such an event. Sherlock had heard John three years ago tell him that he was the best man. But Sherlock had always thought he would be a groom too, not the best man.

"She picked a great suit there." Sherlock sighed, removing himself from the door and standing next to John who was readjusting his jacket in the mirror.

John looked up at Sherlock his lips tugged to one side as he straightened his jacket and ran his hands over the fabric.

"You think?" He asked, tilting his head at himself in the mirror.

In some ways, John Watson was glad this day had come. He had found a beautiful girl, and beautiful woman, and he'd be spending the rest of his life with her.

"How do I look?"

"Average." Sherlock replied, with a weak smile.

It was the easiest thing to do; make a joke of it all. If he didn't, it would only end badly. As much as Sherlock wanted to either leave, or lock John in this room without means of escaping, there was no way he could ruin the biggest day of John's life. Seeing John's bright smile every time he spoke of the wedding made up for the torment inside Sherlock's heart, so he could bear it. To an extent, of course.

With John no longer living at Baker Street, it made it a lot easier for him to let out all his anger and hurt without anyone (except Mrs Hudson) seeing him or even stopping him. Even now, Sherlock was reminding himself to clean up the shattered glass of hundreds of pounds of scientific equipment, which took months to save up for, yet seconds to break. But in John's company, Sherlock had to act like he was just as happy as John was.

"You look great, John." Sherlock corrected, sitting down in one of the many chairs in the room that was way too over the top for his liking. It was almost like stepping into Buckingham Palace all over again. "You always do."

John rolled his eyes with a snort, grinning at Sherlock. He sighed, straightening his tie, blushing brightly as Sherlock complimented him and turning to look at him.

"I...thanks, Sherlock." He looked over the brunette, knowing this was the last time he could do so lovingly without drowning in guilt. He had seemed off, disappointed almost, all day. He walked over and sat next to him on an obnoxiously elegant chair. He looked up at the man, his gaze laced with concern.

"Hey...you alright, mate?" He asked, his brows furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"What?" Sherlock blinked, coming out of his small daze and noticing John's switch in position. "I'm fine. I'm always fine." Yet another lie, he thought.

He hated lying when it wasn't necessary for a case or for his own benefit. This wasn't really for his own benefit. Yes, it saved his back from the humiliation of admitting his feelings for John, but it was more for John's benefit. Best to save John from this kind of hassle before the wedding.

Sherlock turned to face the other way to let out a deep breath, and turned back with a fake smile plastered on his face. "See?"

John's eyebrows knitted together even further with worry. His lips were a thin line scrunched over on one side. Now that he was looking for it, he could see how obviously _not_ fine Sherlock was. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he reached out a hand, stroking the taller mans cheek and cupping it in his palm.

"I have known you for years," he murmured, searching the brunette's face, "And I can tell you that you are definitely not alright." He ran his thumb over the skin of Sherlock's sculpted cheek bones. In a strong, compassionate yet gentle voice that allowed no room for argument, he looked up into Sherlock's icy eyes and said, "Tell me."

Sherlock stayed still momentarily, staring back at John with equal interest. He could have stayed there for hours, without getting even a tad bored. But he knew it was wrong. John Watson was getting married to the woman of his dreams, and he couldn't interfere with that, no matter how much he wanted to. Sherlock jerked out of John's touch, standing up and staring out of the oversized glass windows. He wiped his face as though John's touch was worthless and recomposed himself, standing taller and prouder. John winced as Sherlock jerked away from him, and felt his heart break as Sherlock wiped away any traces that his hand had been there.

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said with a harsh, blunt voice, one he used too often when he didn't mean to. The harsh voice seemed to hit John like a punch, and when paired with the cold words he felt any resolve and strength he had pretended to have, that he had falsely built up, vanished. "I think it's you that has the problem." Sherlock felt terrible merely milliseconds after. He was blaming all of this on John for no reason besides to save his own humiliation. As best man, Sherlock was supposed to be keeping John's spirits high, not ruining things for him. Still, he stayed staring out the window, hiding his pained face.

John could never dislodge the secret affection he would always hold for his flat mate, his friend, his saviour. God, what he would give to be marrying him instead of Mary, despite how lovely she was. He closed his eyes with a sigh, a scenario in which Sherlock told him he loved him, he wasn't married to his work, and he wanted to be married to John, rolled through his mind. He opened his eyes once more and shook off the thought. All that was left was a broken army soldier who was madly in love with his gorgeous flatmate, a man he could never have. He felt a prickle behind his eyes and wells of tears pool in his blue orbs. He didn't bother wiping them away. He sniffed slightly, wiping at his nose.

"You're right," he said softly, yet bitterly, looking angrily at the floor. "I do have a bloody problem."

He stormed off to the door, before thinking twice and turning back. He walked to Sherlock and pulled him away from the window, none to gently.

"Of all the people to fall in love with," he said, "why did it have to be the one man who would never look twice at me, who has never even cared?" He tried to glare at Sherlock, but all that came out of it was a scared, shattered look.

He walked back to the door, more slowly this time, not leaving, just standing by the closed mahogany entrance that probably cost more than his years pay check.

"Why did it have to be you?"

Sherlock had to replay John's words numerous times in his head, trying to process what he had even said. It made him angry more than anything. Had John figured out Sherlock's feelings? And if so, what was the point of bringing it up now? To annoy him?

"That was three years ago, John!" He shouted back, letting out the anger instead of hiding it away. "Three years, and you got over it, and so I got over it! You're getting married, John. Mary. That time is in the past. You have no right to bring it up again!" Sherlock's heart was beating fast, but he didn't know whether it was because he was so angry, or because he was lying more. Whichever of those it was, he knew it was only an addition to the rate that John always made his heart beat. John visibly flinched with each syllable shouted at him; the tears welled up in his eyes dangerously close to breaking over. He didn't want to turn around; he was terrified, but he didn't want to argue with a door either. He took a deep breath and turned.

"Three years? And you got over it? I got over it?" He shook his head. "What the _hell_ are you talking about? I have been madly in love with you since the day we met! I don't know why, but I am. With your smile, your laugh, your curly hair, your high cheek bones, your brilliance... I love you Sherlock. But I never said anything when you were so insistently 'married to your work' and so... so cold to me. I _never_ got over it!" He didn't know if he wanted to curl into a ball on the floor or wave his fists around, he couldn't tell. He was just...broken.

"When you died, and left me all alone with nothing and no one, I died with you. Did you know that? I even tried to join you. It didn't work, as much as I tried. I always took the pleasure that even you couldn't deduce that I has tried when you came back." he said with a bitter smile. "Mary found me when I was wallowing in grief, and she was... she was so like you. And I just... it was the closest I would ever have to having you back. So I went out with her, clung to her, desperate for anything keeping you with me. I proposed because I was in love with the dead man she resembled so well. I was in love with her too, of course; but because she made me think of you." John walked off, looking out the window. "But then you came back, and I just...I didn't...I didn't know what to do. You still didn't love me and never would. Never will. So I stayed with her. Closest thing I could get to you, remember? And you continued being cold." He swallowed back a lump in his throat, turning around to face Sherlock. "But don't you _dare_ say you got over it. Don't you _dare_ tease me like that. You never loved me and never have. How could you? I'm worthless compared to the great Sherlock Holmes." John didn't say this bitterly. No, he said it sadly. Broken, lost. He felt the tears spill; although he was sure they had long before now too, and struggled to keep his breathing from hitching into sobs. He buried his head in his hands, not caring anymore if Sherlock saw him cry. Let him. Maybe it would force some remorse into that cold heart of his.

Sherlock staggered slightly, taking a few steps back. He didn't want to back away; if anything all he wanted to do was hold John as tightly as he used to. But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to making that contact he desired. John wasn't thinking straight, he assured himself. Maybe Sherlock wasn't thinking straight either. Despite all this, he couldn't just ignore everything that had just been said. John had sounded truthful, and saturated with emotion. The emotional side was obvious, expressed not only by the tone of his speech but the state he was presently in. And it killed him, more than actual death had.

What struck him the most though, was the fact that John acted as though Sherlock was emotionless and had never felt anything towards him. John knew, John had to have known. Clearly, it hadn't been as evident as he thought it had been. So what did he do? Was he to allow himself to cave in and comfort John? Or continue his approach that John wasn't serious? A little bit of both should do well, he decided.

"John, I'm going to need you to think this through quite a bit before you even utter another word on the subject. If any of what you are saying is at all a lie, I'll know." Another lie, he pointed out to himself. He was too tangled in his own emotion to even tell the difference. "I believe you know that much about me. And if it is a lie, I would prefer it if you never mentioned the subject again. I mean it." He quickly took a deep breath and brought himself close to John's side. Sherlock placed a single hand on his back, but he was close enough for John's head to be practically on his chest anyway. John's head shot up at the hand to his back, but he listened to Sherlock speak. "If you are truly serious, John, please tell me. You're about to get married to Mary, you do realise that? This isn't going to work out." Sherlock was biting his lip to not plainly tell John to call off the wedding. To be honest, he had been wanting to since the announcement of the engagement. But it wasn't his decision to make, nor could he force the decision to be made. "Just tell me."

John couldn't possibly handle the hope that Sherlock loved him. He simply couldn't comprehend it, couldn't absorb it in the midst of all this pain. He shook his head.

"God, why would I lie about that? Why? Do you not realize this could ruin my entire life? There is no incentive to lie in the first place. Of course I'm serious, I mean all of it. If you can tell when I lie you shouldn't have even asked for reassurance. It was true." John could feel himself shaking and sniffed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Why do you care though?" He whispered, actually looking up at Sherlock. "You never cared before. What does it matter if I love you? It's not like you return the feelings." he said with a tired tone.

"Oh god," John groaned, tears spilling over as he spoke. "I can't...I don't know what to do...I don't want to hurt her...and she's the closest thing I have to you, Sherlock. If I can't have you...I don't...I don't want to lose both of you..." He pulled at his hair with a frustrated and anxious growl, his voice shaking and breaking each time he spoke. "I can't handle this. You don't love me. You don't love me and you never have. Don't make fun of me and tease me like this. I just..."

But all the while of sending Sherlock away, he leaned forward into Sherlock until he was curled up against his chest; eyes clenched shut against the storm of tears. A glimmer of hope returned to Sherlock's eyes, the hope he had been lacking for months. His face somewhat softened, but was still marked by the frown he had been wearing for much too long. Hope is what gave him the incentive to ignore what his head told him was wrong and to pursue what his heart wanted. Sherlock removed his hand, substituting it with both his arms enveloping around his weeping man and ever so simply using this hold to bring them as close as possible. John sighed in relief.

"John, when we met, you ran a blog, a highly unsuccessful one, but a blog nonetheless. After a few cases, that blog soon turned into a blog about us. About what we did, what we do, just our adventures. And God, did I criticise it. I criticised every post, every title, and every word." Sherlock paused, staring up at the ceiling with a smile of self pity. "I didn't run a blog. All I had was my journal. You didn't know about that; I hid it. Although, that wasn't much of a challenge. You didn't manage to find a packet of cigarettes that was practically staring you in the face. Anyway, I didn't use the journal to write a single case note, I didn't use it to write shopping lists, and I certainly didn't use it as a documentation of my life. It was you, John. To be honest, it's always been you. I wish you could read it now. Then you'd understand. All that's in that journal is things about you. Not even us, _you_. Little facts, your random quirks, how you like your tea, it's all in there. I hate to admit it, but everything I've ever felt towards you is written clearly there too. I knew how you felt about me, it was obvious. I was pretty sure you knew how I felt too. Everyone else could see it. And I thought we expressed it too, but perhaps I was wrong, surprisingly. But rereading all of that about you was what kept me sane for the two years I was away. It made me miss you so much more, but it was a reminder of what I was coming back to. But..." He closed his eyes and rested his chin on the top of John's head. "That's not what I came back to, John. After the initial issues, which I expected, you were different. Distant. Like we had started right from the beginning again. Of course, you were my best friend, you _are_ my best friend, but it never seemed to be that basic before I left. But it was just that since I came back to you. Everything was explained when you first brought Mary round. She's perfect for you, John. So much better than I could ever be. Even now, the day of your wedding and I can't help but ruin it all. You smiled so bright every time she was mentioned and when you were with her, I realised how much happier you looked with her than you ever did with me. It's selfish to think that you would be better off with me instead, which is why I let it be. I didn't interfere. All I want is for you to be happy. This is why you have to marry her, John. Forget this conversation happened, and marry the woman you fell in love with, the one who is going to keep you safe and happy and loved. Let her give you everything I never could."

John focused on breathing when Sherlock spoke, and from the tone of his voice and because he was simply _Sherlock_ he knew the man wasn't lying. His heart was jumping, leaping, dancing all around in his chest, the hope and disbelief and excitement that the man he had been so intensely in love with returned the feelings; that he had always felt the same, that he had cared enough to keep a journal all about him. He nuzzled into Sherlock's chest, taking a deep shaky breath before speaking.

"Sherlock, I...I had no idea. I never knew..." He trailed off, not sure how to explain everything raging within him.

"Of course you didn't know." Sherlock interrupted.

"I...god, please don't ever think that again. That I'm happier with anyone else than with you because you are my only true joy in life...you are all I had. The only reason I may've seemed sad to you when I was with you was because it hurt me knowing you could never love me. But you love me...god, Sherlock, you love me. I will _never_ forget this conversation happened Sherlock. Because I can't...I won't marry her. Not if there is any chance at all that you love me, that we could have this..."

He pulled away from Sherlock slightly. His eyes were starting to take on a red tinge, and he still had tears trailing down his cheeks. He took Sherlock's hands within his, before looking up at Sherlock with a nervous breath.

"Just...just know that no matter your answer, I still wouldn't marry her. That you can't change my mind...but...Sherlock Holmes..." He searched Sherlock's icy blue eyes, his heart hammering in his chest, anxious and scared and terrified. "Will you marry me? Please?"

Sherlock looked down, realising he was being serious. "John..." He began.

Sure, if they hadn't been in the position they were now, where John was about to marry someone else, then Sherlock wouldn't have even hesitated. But considering the ways things were, there was no way could let himself do so. Mary was involved now, it would break her heart.

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I can't, John. You know I can't. That's not fair." Sherlock pulled John close and hugged him tightly. "You're going to be happy, you deserve so much, and that's what you're going to get. As you pointed out, she's me. Well, sort of. Clearly lacks the same intelligence, the stamina... Anyway. She's the me that you can have. Honestly, you could have me. You could always have had me. But that's changed now. You've brought her into it, and you can't just take her out so simply. Maybe I'm not the best to be speaking about emotions, but right now, I know what it would do to her. I've had someone I love leave me before." John wanted to pull away from Sherlock after he had said no, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He clung to Sherlock's shirt, crying much harder now, although he kept any sobs in check.

Sherlock broke away, instead holding John's shoulders to get his message across. "You're not thinking straight at the moment. You know that. Go and marry Mary, John. She makes you happy. That's what you deserve; happiness. And that's the only way."

He turned away, facing the door. John pulled Sherlock back to him, not letting him leave.

"I just don't think I'll be able to watch that happen."

"You won't have to watch. I told you, I won't marry her either way. Don't you understand? She can't make me happy. Nothing can truly make me happy except you. And I hate to hurt her, but its better that I end this now before we get married and have to go through a divorce...this isn't right..."

John nodded slowly as he came to his conclusion. "I'm not going to marry her. Whether you love me or not. I hate do to this, but she's reasonable...she's smart...she'll understand. I think she already knew she was your replacement as it is. I'm thinking straight Sherlock. Because I've been thinking like this for years. And I just... Unless it's you walking down to that aisle, then I'm not getting married."

Sherlock pulled himself away once more, moving backwards, all while staring John dead in the eyes.

"Don't do this to me now, John. Not now. Do you not think this has been enough?" his voice unintentionally began to rise in volume, as it always did when he was angry. But anger is a secondary emotion, meaning it is counteracted by another emotion. Sherlock knew this emotion well, it was hurt. It had been for quite a while. John flinched as Sherlock began to yell at him. He felt emotions bubbly deep within him, not necessarily anger but hurt and frustration. He furrowed his eyebrows.

"Don't do this to _you_?" John growled back, pulling at his own hair. "I loved you from the very start and was obvious about it. I was very kind, compassionate, at least. You? You treated me like I was _worthless_. Like I didn't mean anything to you. At least you knew that I loved you. Me? I felt like I could die and you wouldn't care. All that 'happiness' you keep talking about was fake, Sherlock! Don't you understand? I was lying to myself to try and fix things!"

"I came back to you, as I always would, and always will, and I came back to find you with someone else! I don't mind that. I got over that. You've already explained it very clearly. But I still had to sit back and watch you two together! I saw how she made you feel, John! And it killed me. It really did. I felt more alive when committing suicide." Sherlock bit his lip harshly, almost breaking the skin. "And now you think, after all of this, that you can just offer to marry me instead and it's all going to be alright? Like nothing ever happened? You're insane." Sherlock spat, and turned to begin pacing back and forth, trying to control himself.

He didn't want to be angry; he just wanted for it all to be over, for it to go back to the day they first met so he could start it all over again. Sadly, that was highly impossible. And now look where they were. In yet another impossible situation, of which couldn't be solved without at least one person being hurt. This couldn't be easily solved any more; it had gotten too deep, too far down the line. Yet, that glimmer of hope stayed in his eyes, as much as he tried to hide it. Now it was more hope that this would all end up working out, that John would be happy. John's happiness was the main priority now.

Without a second glance at Sherlock, fully aware he wouldn't be able to contain any sobs this time; John walked to the door and opened it. He looked over his shoulder slightly.

"If you really care as much as you say you do, and really want me to be happy, find me later. But now...now I just..."

"John Watson, you are one frustrating man." Sherlock sighed to himself. He sat back in one of the clearly expensive chairs and stared at the door. For once, he really wasn't in the mood to be caught in a mystery. As always, a mystery comes when you don't want one, and doesn't when you do. Story of his life, really.

Johm walked briskly to the room where he knew Mary was getting ready, leaving Sherlock. Without a knock walked in. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he went over to where Mary was laughing with a friend. He looked at the ground, taking one of her hands before shaking his head and looking up at her, his eyes shining. "I can't," he whispered. And with that, he turned.

And John ran.

Sherlock barely knew the building they were in. He hadn't been interested at all when entering. Frankly, he didn't even know what town they were in, which was probably not useful in the solving of John's location. Where would he go, Sherlock asked himself. This was something he should know, he should definitely know, but he could be anywhere by now.

Even if marrying John now wasn't right, he knew he still had to find him. He closed his eyes, visualising the path he had taken, remembering every detail he picked up, which was hardly any. As much as he wished this had been enough to locate his friend, the bare minimums of what he had actually picked up assure him that it was useless.

"Another game of hide and seek then." Sherlock said to himself, standing back up and moving towards the door. He stopped in front of the mirror. Looking closely, he could see his eyes were bloodshot. He used the palm of his hand to rub them, hoping it would fix the aesthetic proof of his emotions, but instead it seemed to be worse. He pulled out the stupid flower from his top pocket and untied his tie, leaving then both at the bottom of the mirror. With a final nod of self pity to himself, Sherlock walked out of the room, looking both ways. To his right, he saw a long corridor, scattered with doors here and there which were all identical. To the left, a woman with a vacuum cleaner. Great, which meant his only choice was to go through every room.

Sherlock came across plenty of empty rooms, all of which looked like variations of the room they had been in. He turned the corner at the end, coming across yet another corridor. He shook his head; it was an endless task. He came to the room Mary was in, unknowingly.

He turned the handle, bursting in, expecting it to be empty too. When he saw the people inside, he had the chance to ask if they had seen John.

"Have you seen- oh god." Sherlock stopped and gasped slightly. John had been here, alright. Mary sat tightly holding her friend, her muffled sobs evident.

Sherlock looked down at the ground, knowing exactly how she must feel.

"Get out!" Mary shouted, lifting her head. "Just get out!"

Sherlock slowly backed out, reclosing the door. As painful as it was, it gave him an idea of which way John went.

Meanwhile, John ran. He ran and ran and ran. He didn't know where he was going himself, which wasn't probably any help to Sherlock if he actually cared enough to find him. Oh well. That didn't matter now. Besides, Sherlock could figure it out; he was intelligent. He just wanted to be the farthest he could from that damned building and all the expectations and anger and tension within it.

He stopped when he saw a graveyard. He looked at it with a heavy feeling in his chest; the memories of sitting under a tree close to Sherlock's grave every month bringing back feelings of anguish, of desire and need for his flatmate to be alive. He may have been stubborn in admitting that Sherlock was dead, but he never would have thought he would come back. He never had imagined that the man would come back and cause all of this.

For reasons he wasn't sure; perhaps for familiarity or simply because he couldn't stand, he was drawn almost uncontrollably to a tree in the middle of the large field of white and black marble stones, some of which with names too old and worn away to be read. His composure finally snapped, and as he slid down the tree, he folded his arms atop his knees and buried his head within them, bawling uncontrollably.

John cried for what felt like days, though in the end he honestly was sure how long he had been curled in on himself, shaking and crying and gasping for breath, despite the clock on his phone showing it had been over an hour. Either way, he felt a little better. He still felt completely lost, and broken and hopeless, along with just purely hurt, but that was better than the painful, more energetic betrayal and frustration and anger that he had felt before. It was better to feel empty, wasn't it?

He leaned his head back against the supporting him, looking up at the branches and leaves swaying slightly in the breeze of that day, and closed his eyes. Sherlock still hadn't found him; given, there wasn't any way the detective would ever guess he was out here. With a sigh, he pulled out his phone. It was only fair.

_**Graveyard. JW**_

His fingers shook as he typed, fumbling on the keyboard. He sent the message, and with a sigh, he leaned over onto the ground and curled up on his side, he arms around his knees, his eyes shut as he rested against the base of the tree, the smell of earth soothing the pounding in his head.

Sherlock was beginning to get more and more frantic as he had been down every corridor, been in every room, and still lacked John. He had checked the floors; there was no evidence at all. Not a single item dropped, and the cleaners had already been to work at destroying any other visual clue. It was hopeless, which was a lot to say, considering what he could usually do. He could trace a single hairpin back to its owner if he tried or wanted to. He wanted to find John; no, he _needed _to find John, he just couldn't.

Sherlock considered going back to Mary's room, no matter how inconvenient of a time it was, to see whether she could help in the slightest as to John's whereabouts. He thought he knew John better than anyone, but perhaps he was wrong. Maybe Mary really had taken over; maybe she was the one who knew his every detail. Even so, as he unknowingly began walking towards her door, he stopped, realising it would be a mistake. Finding John was the most important, but it wasn't worth upsetting Mary further.

He had never hated Mary, in fact, far from it. She was wonderful, she really was. Definitely a lot smarter than any woman John had dated before. She was much less of a hindrance in their cases, and she was brave enough to be helpful in some of them. John and Mary were perfect together, if Sherlock was honest with himself. Of course, he was jealous almost every second they were together, but it wasn't her fault that she fell in love with John; even Sherlock had.

He walked back down the corridors, until he reached the door. Here, on the cold steps outside of the elaborate building, Sherlock sat down, leaning against the wall. He didn't mind how freezing it was, he hardly even noticed compared to everything else going on in his mind. John had disappeared.

"Where are you, John?" He whimpered in defeat.

His phone sounded from his top pocket, with a considerably more suitable tone. Sherlock's head shot up, at first confused as to where the noise came from. When he realised, he began to riffle his hands in his trouser pockets, searching for the phone. He couldn't find it, and started to panic, but he soon rolled his eyes and took it out of his jacket pocket.

Sherlock reread the text numerous times, wondering what on earth had possessed him to go there. It brought back enough bad memories for Sherlock alone, so why would John want to do that? He never thought things would go this badly. He would have just said yes if he knew this was going to happen.

No, he cursed himself. He couldn't have just say yes to avoid this. Saying yes would have been wrong. If he was to marry John, it would have to be because it was something that they were ready for, and Sherlock was far from that. He would have married John in a heartbeat but a few years ago. Times and situations had changed now.

He tried to clear his head as he lifted himself up off of the cold stone, but it was never going to happen. He walked straight along the pathway for a good ten minutes before he realised his first fatal flaw: he had absolutely no idea where this graveyard was. With a sigh, Sherlock turned in all directions, looking for any sign that indicated the graveyard's location. Unfortunately, there wasn't one. Wonderful, he thought, this better be worth it.

He embarked on the next stage of his search, the search for John, with at least one hint this time. Although, he didn't know how long this part was going to take. The place could be anywhere.

John was feeling himself shiver rather severely, and knew he should probably get off the ground. Despite this, he couldn't bring himself to move; he wanted to stay there forever, among the dead. If he stayed there, he wouldn't have to deal with anything else. He wouldn't have to be hurt, or hurt people, or have anything to be angry or frustrated or bad about. He sighed, looking at all the stones around him. He imagines the lives buried beneath them; how one Cathy Simmons had a lovely husband who proposed to her on Christmas, and loved to walk on the beach. How an Alphard Finch lived alone, enjoying to read and write, and touched millions with his poetry written from a pseudonym. He wondered how many times people had visited these graves; how many people had visited their loved ones as often as he had. How many of them had attempted death the way he had to join them-

He shook his head.

Best not to think about that.

He was starting to give up hope that Sherlock would bother to find him. Why would he? The man was probably just lying back there anyway, John told himself. He felt like he should be crying, but had already lost all his tears. He sighed, imagining how distraught Mary must be. At least it was for the best.

It took Sherlock another twenty minutes to admit defeat. He had already passed two abandoned cars, reached a small town and made his way back to his starting point. Already, he regretted not asking anyone in the town to show him the direction of the graveyard. He wanted to find it himself, without the help of others, but clearly he was missing something.

His only concern was John presently. Yes, Sherlock was freezing cold, his hair had gotten messed up and the wind had made his eyes water. But what about John? He couldn't be in a better position at all. Above all, he was sat in a graveyard of all places: a land of the dead. Who knows what he might do? Sherlock didn't want to think of the possibilities.

Something clicked in Sherlock's mind. He wasn't going to walk back to the town to get directions, when he had his phone right with him. Best idea was to just text John and ask where the graveyard was. Not only would this give him the location, but it would let John know that he was coming and he could ask whether he was alright.

_**John, are you okay? It's cold and I'm worried. I hope you're not in too bad a condition. Please be careful. Also, just a quick question, where is this graveyard? - SH (or SW if you want me to be)**_

John flinched at the tone that played from his phone, and he looked down in surprise to see Sherlock had texted him. He felt his heart clench at the message, seeing the man's concerned and caring words twisting something within him that made him want to cry, although he couldn't understand why. He also berated himself for his heart jumping in this throat at the alternate signature. That simply couldn't mean what he wanted it to.

_**Don't be worried. It's a five minute walk from the building where...you know. Take a left from there, and then turn right at the candy shop. Keep walking. The graveyard is on the left. JW**_

Johndidn't bother lying and saying he was fine. He knew he wasn't, and didn't have the energy to type out anything more. He sent the message with a sigh, plopping his hands to the ground beside him again. He scratched fiery red lines into his wrist, a distraction against the numbness and emptiness he felt in his chest, from the cold seeping into his bones. He sighed, closing his eyes, hiding the graves from view. He wondered what Sherlock would do when he got there, what John would do. He knew at the least that unless Sherlock forced him or helped him he wouldn't be getting up; by the time Sherlock got here he'd simply be too weak and tired and cold to move. He nuzzled into the grass, leaves and dirt, not minding that he would get a scuff mark on his temple. He just needed something, anything, to ground him from the swirling rampage of everyone flushing through him.

"The candy shop!" Sherlock exclaimed. The one place he had narrowly avoided was where I was going to be. He silently cursed himself again for not trying there. This could have all been over a long time ago. "I'm sorry." He whispered to apparently no one, but meant it for John, even if he couldn't hear.

He read the message over again, as he always did. John didn't certify his wellbeing, not at all. Sherlock knew he was alive, that much was certain. What if he was injured? Cold? Just upset? He couldn't make anything out from the plain text. He began to panic, but he reassured himself that everything was going to be alright.

_**I'll be there as soon as possible. Please stay safe. For me. I love you. -SH**_

Sherlock hoped the addition about himself would convince John to not do anything rash or stupid. That is, if John actually cared enough to take that on board. Of course, Sherlock had to add his greatest confession, not only to further encourage the order given by the rest of the message, but to assure John that as soon as Sherlock reached that graveyard, everything was going to be alright. No more pain. No more crying.

Sherlock sent the message and secured his phone in the pocket just on the inside of his jacket. Then, he broke out into the fastest sprint he had ever tried since school. He knew he had no time to lose now.

John heard his phone alert go off once more, and he almost wanted to groan at the effort it seemed it would take to lift his arms and read the text. Sighing it off, he did so with heavily trembling hands.

He felt guilty for worrying Sherlock so much. More so, he felt guilty that he _liked_ the fact Sherlock worried. That he cared. His stomach seemed to drop out of him as Sherlock told him to stay safe, feeling as if the man should know better than to think he'd do something stupid. Looking at his stinging arm though, and the fact he was so cold he felt like even shivering wouldn't be an option, he had to admit that Sherlock had reason to be worried. He blew it off. He was safe, if not exactly healthy or in the best condition. Danger of hypothermia maybe, but he decided that wouldn't count.

John wanted to reply to the message with at least, "I love you too", but after he struggled to make it somewhat literate and not have the extra letters tagged on by his fumbling fingers, it seemed there was no point anyway. He would probably just say it to have Sherlock come back and tell him to marry the woman crying in the extravagant building a few blocks away, that he couldn't love him, that it would never work.

He let his eyes close now that he knew Sherlock would be on his way, so he wouldn't be alone with the lives of those who passed on much longer. He realized this with an odd sort of sadness and wished once more he could join them.

He was reminded why Sherlock was concerned once more.

He clenched his hands against the cold, his fingernails pressing into his palms, and finally he let himself relax, simply laying in the golden leaves and the grass and the earth, under the canopy of a tree in a graveyard he had found himself to be rather fond of.

Sherlock ran back to where he remembered seeing a candy shop, stopping for a breath.

"Right." He muttered, and began to run in the direction of the graveyard.

It didn't take long to reach it, but when he did, he was certainly out of breath. It had been a while since he had needed to run on a case, and his stamina was evidently down.

As he walked through the small rusty gate, he was greeted with a field littered with trees and coated with grave stones. Sherlock always got a certain chill when he was anywhere near a graveyard. Not only did he hate the memories from his father's funeral when he was but a young boy, but more recently, when he was stood in one, looking at his own grave.

From his first scope of the area, the place looked empty, minus a couple of people off in the distance. Had John really sent him on a false trail? Sure, he may not be in the best of moods, but he wanted Sherlock to find him, didn't he?

He retrieved his phone from his pocket. No new messages. John hadn't replied to Sherlock saying he loved him. He sadly placed it back where it had been.

If it hadn't been for a final look, Sherlock was sure to not have seen the curled up body by one of the trees.

"No..." His eyes widened. "No, no, no!" He shouted, running through the numerous obstacles and crouching down by his side.

"John." He whispered, shaking him slightly and turning him over.

John stirred slightly as he heard someone yelling, and groaned slightly as he felt slender hands turn him onto his back, shaken. He opened his eyes, blinking up at Sherlock slowly.

"Hey," he said tiredly, feeling sleepy and weak and numb. His shivering had stopped a while back, along with any sensitivity to the cold. John knew this was really bad, that he needed to get inside somewhere and get warm fast, but he didn't have the energy to care.

"Oh, thank god." Sherlock sighed in relief. He took a moment just to stare at John, examining his condition. "You idiot. Never do that again." He continued sternly, but a small smile still softened his face. John was alive, at least, and Sherlock was there with him.

John struggled to sit up before finally giving up, resting against a tree root. "Thanks for coming. But I..." He sighed. "There's nothing...nothing really more for me to say. I told Mary I couldn't marry her...she's out of the picture...and now it's just me. Alone now," he said sadly, stuttering slightly and speaking with effort. "I'm sorry Sherlock," he murmured, grabbing a handful of leaves at his side, running fingers through the blades of grass before holding onto it gently.

"Do you think any of these graves are like yours?" He asked. He didn't know why he asked. Why he cared. He didn't even want an answer. He just didn't want Sherlock to tell him he wouldn't marry him, that he couldn't move back in to Baker Street now that he was homeless and alone and broken. He didn't want Sherlock to yell at him, or say cruel words. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock himself. He just wanted to sleep and never wake up... Sherlock was right. Caring was a chemical defect, a weakness. This hurt too much.

Sherlock looked to his left and right. "Yes, John. There are graves like mine here. There are graves like mine everywhere. But I'm here, John. As alive as you are."

With a hand wrapped around John's, Sherlock gathered the sheer cold of his skin. His face turned to one of concern instead, the smile disappearing. "You're freezing." He muttered.

How long had he even been here? Since he left? He really hoped John hadn't been here long. The temperature was not at all healthy for anyone, let alone if they were laid on the damp ground. The surroundings were hardly healthy for John either. John surrounded by the dead was something he never wanted to see.

John sighed, staring up at the leaves and branches above him as he listened to the sound of Sherlock's voice, reprimanding him and simply speaking to him, the baritone rolling over him like warm waves. He felt Sherlock gather one of his hands within his, and almost flinched from the sudden warmth, his skin tingling slightly and burning. Still not looking at Sherlock, he heard concern in his voice and looked over. Wasn't Sherlock mad?

Sherlock had to get him out of here, off the ground but he could tell the man was weak and stone cold. He doubted John would even be able to get up, let alone walk. But what alternative was there?

Only one.

"Alright, John. We're going to leave now. Don't move." Sherlock reassured him, as he slid his arms underneath his body, positioning himself in a way that would make it easier and more stable for Sherlock to pick him up.

John heard Sherlock say they were going to leave, and was about to ask why he had to stay still, before he felt arms slide under him, working their ways under his legs and shoulders. His eyebrows furrowed.

"But...but I thought you were going to leave me...I thought I was going to have to find a new place to stay and be alone and feel miserable...why are you taking me with you? Why are you caring?" He sighed, closing his eyes again and holding onto the grass. "Don't tease me like this Sherlock. Don't act like you care if you don't. I can't...I can't handle this. If you are mad at me and are going to be...be mean, then just do it and let me stay here. Let me stay here and die and then make sure they bury me, right here." He knew he was being dramatic, but he was too tired and simply done with everything to control himself. And besides, he meant what he said.

"Would you shut up, you rambling fool? I'm trying to save your life here, and all you can do is be about as pessimistic as they come."

Sherlock bent down further, and was now kneeling next to him. He moved slightly to face him straight on, searching his eyes.

John shut up, not saying anything. He watched Sherlock nervously as he leant down to him, looking him in the eyes.

"John, John Hamish Watson, I would marry you any day of the week if you so wished me to. I'd marry you right here, right now. But the important thing now is your safety, your health. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Ever. I just need you to cooperate with me for as long as it takes to get you back inside."

John's heart leapt and jumped and exploded in his chest at Sherlock's words, and he couldn't help the exhausted dazed grin that spread over his face until his cheeks grew too tired. He didn't say anything but a simple quiet and small sounding thank you.

Without waiting for any sort of answer, Sherlock went back to his crouching position. He took a deep breath, and lifted John up, placing him on his legs. John lay limp, not neccesarily by much choice, as Sherlock lifted him into his arms. He wrapped his arms willingly around the taller mans neck, and nuzzled into his chest with a tired sigh. Sherlock repositioned his arms properly, keeping one underneath his legs and wrapping John's left arm around his shoulders to support his upper body.

"Lost ten pounds since- never mind." He walked forward, dodging a few graves, and trying to look far enough ahead to make sure he didn't trip over anything. Seeing all the graves, Sherlock had to ponder over John's previous questions. "The grave question, John. You wanted to know if any of the graves here were like mine. Why? What do you even mean?"

John shrugged at Sherlock's question; well, he shrugged the best he could, which was more of a barely noticeable squirm. "I don't know...I just didn't want you to get straight to the point and hate me. But I meant whether any of them were empty...whether you thought anybody was mourning over people who were still alive. I don't know why though...just occurred to me..." He sighed. "I hope not. I doubt they'd be lucky enough to have the supposed deceased to come back like you did. And it would hurt to find out a grave you kneeled over was empty but you'd still

Never see them."

"Well, you're never going to have to worry about me being dead again. Not until I actually die, that is. But I plan on that happening quite far in the future."

Instead of continuing to speak, Sherlock was going over what he had said only minutes before. He had told John he would marry him, technically. He didn't exactly regret it, not at all. He meant very word. But it really was a spur of the moment thing. It had reassured John, which made things a lot easier. Maybe he shouldn't have said it? Giving John false hope wasn't a good idea, considering what had happened last time. Or would he actually marry John? The answer was yes, he would. He would have three years ago, and he would today.

He noticed John was quiet. "Are you alright? Are you still cold? Does anything hurt?"

John sighed and nodded, not wanting to think about that day until he was forced, until he had to. He felt rather content in the man's arms, though he was rather wary of Sherlock as well. He had a feeling the man wasn't being truthful with him. Maybe even lying about caring, though that wouldn't explain him making sure he was safe. But it seemed like too sudden a transition; from an angry, frustrated and cold Sherlock to this kind hearted and concerned man who said he would marry him.

John turned his head into Sherlock's chest, feeling dizzy. He head ached with each step. He smiled unconvincingly up at Sherlock. "Yeah. Fine. Cold. Headache. I'm fine."

Sherlock smirked. "I'm not entirely sure that constitutes as being fine." He looked around the small town they had now reached and saw a bench to the side of one of the pavements. He headed towards it. John sighed, rolling his eyes with a small smile at Sherlock's comment.

"I'm going to sit you down here for a second, John. Don't worry." He informed him, before slowly placing John into a sitting position on the bench. John was about to protest when Sherlock set him down; for some reason he was worried Sherlock would leave him, that he would be taken away from him, but he didn't say anything after Sherlock told him not to worry. He didn't want to be more trouble than he already was.

Sherlock kept one arm on his shoulders to keep him upright, and then began his struggle to get his coat off with one arm. After that failed, he decided to move John to the edge of the bench, where he could lean on Sherlock's body instead, leaving both arms free.

"Sherlock, you need your coat, there's no point in you getting cold too," John said, concerned. Sherlock, of course, didn't listen, and continued to try and pull it off.

The coat came off a lot easier this time. There was a cold wind that definitely didn't help matters, but Sherlock was certainly in a better condition than John. John's health was the most important on his agenda right now, as he didn't really know how bad it was or whether he was even going to survive it at all. He shook off the visual images that saturated his mind with depictions of Sherlock stood at his friend's grave, instead of the other way round. He needed to focus on the procedure in hand, not depress himself with such thoughts. Sherlock quickly wrapped the coat around John and aligned himself to pick him up in the same way he had last time.

"Any better?" He asked when he had gotten his pace. Wearing only a shirt in this weather wasn't the smartest idea he had ever had, but it was for a good cause. As not to worry John, he tried to control his shivering, bearing through it.

John couldn't help but sigh contentedly when the thick Belstaff was wrapped around him, warm from Sherlock's body heat. He cuddled into Sherlock as he was lifted back into Sherlock's arms, but looked up concerned at Sherlock.

"Yes, I'm much better, but you need your coat! I can feel your shivering, there's no use hiding it. Just get inside somewhere! A library, a store, I don't care, just please don't let yourself get like this," he said, meaning himself. "We could get a cab back to London...or get a train, or find a hotel...I don't know..." He tried desperately. "I just don't want you to get hurt or anything."

Sherlock smiled down and placed a kiss on John's forehead. "Shhh, don't waste energy you don't have worrying about me. I'm fine. What we're going to do is get you back to your room; where there is guaranteed warmth and you can lie down for as long as you need to without people judging you. I can get duvets and everything. I'm pretty sure I saw a few in one of the rooms down the corridor. I found the kitchen as well; I can grab some food so we can get your energy up too. You see, John? It's all going to be okay. Everything."

John didn't want to stop worrying, to let himself be comforted and then realize that the comfort was all a lie and it wouldn't be okay and then be worse. But he simply couldn't help it. He melted into Sherlock's words, his touch, and the kiss to his forehead. His heart swelled, and he realized how much he needed this. Not getting into the warmth, though he realized he needed that very much as well, but Sherlock. Sherlock's love, his compassion, everything about him. He knew if Sherlock wouldn't take him back he wouldn't be able to handle it. He would _make_ him take the him back. If Sherlock wouldn't marry him, that was okay. He just needed the man in his life; he needed this.

He sighed tiredly, yet contentedly, nuzzling into his chest.

Sherlock's plan seemed to give him more self-determination to get them back there as quickly as he could.

Maybe everything was going to be okay? Not only for John, but for him too. If John really had given up on Mary, would that mean he was going to come back to Baker Street? He couldn't exactly live with her anymore, if she would even allow it. Besides their house together, John didn't really have anywhere else go. If he really did feel that way, would he want to live with Sherlock?

He missed having John around. Yes, he always complained about Sherlock's experimenting, his things from him and moved things he didn't want moving, but the apartment was boring and quiet without him. Mrs Hudson visited him from time to time, but I was hardly the same. The apartment was aesthetically empty too. Sherlock's things had always taken up a lot of the space, but John had things all over too. And he missed them. Nothing looked right without the combination of possessions littering the room.

John's room was still empty too, minus the furniture that was there originally. Sherlock had only been in there twice since John had moved out. The first time was to pick up some books and clothes he had left behind. The second time came about a month after, when he was looking for a missing book about bees. His automatic thought was that John had accidentally picked it up and added it to his collection. When Sherlock walked in, however, it flooded back to him in one go that John was not there at all. The wardrobe empty, no bedding, just a wooden frame and the chair in the corner lacked the vibrancy of the pillow John had kept upon it, some sort of family heirloom apparently. Since that day, he had kept the door locked and hadn't unlocked it once. He hated the sight of it being so dull.

A sudden gust of wind took Sherlock out of his blank period, and brought him back to the reality. He smiled weakly as he realised how close they were to being in the warmth.

"Everything Sherlock? Do you honestly mean that?" He asked shyly, closing his eyes. "I know I won't die; you obviously wouldn't let me, not from something mundane as the cold. But I mean...with you. Will it be okay?" He bit his lip. "I just want things to go back to the way they were, if anything. If you don't want to be with me, it would break my heart, but that's okay...I just...I want to move back in to Baker Street, and find fingers in the fridge and hear your violin at three in the morning because although I never told you it helped my nightmares more than you could ever know and I want to run through the streets of London with you and watch TV with you while you yell at the screen. I want all of it...more if I can get it...but I just..." He buried his head in the brunette's chest.

"Just don't let me go," he said softly.

"I wouldn't dream of it. I've carried you this far, it would have been a waste of time to let you go now." Sherlock grinned, and slightly squeezed him. "I know what you meant, John. I won't let you go. I never did. But I can't guarantee your return to Baker Street. Goodness knows where you would move all my stuff to. And the constant complaints! Oh, it would be nightmare." He hoped John understood the sarcasm here, but decided it was best to reassure him anyway. "Of course you are moving back in with me. I wouldn't dream of a world any other way."

By now, they had finally reached the stairs of the overly ornate building. "I'd love to know when you turned into royalty, John. You're on the verge of practically being Mycroft."

John scoffed and rolled his eyes. "This place wasn't my idea of course; that was Mary's doing."

It was a struggle to climb the stairs, what with the weight of an extra man as well, but Sherlock plodded on, knowing what lay before the door. As they reached the inside, the heat from the many radiators made Sherlock flush with a cold shiver as his body adjusted to the totally new temperature. He rushed to the room they had been assigned, with the new energy he had found. John felt himself burn, feeling as if he would melt in the new heat but still feeling weak and tired and ice in his bones. He closed his eyes tiredly and relieved as Sherlock rushed him to his room, and couldn't help the almost inaudible whimper that escaped when Sherlock lay him down. He could hear Sherlock's hard breathing down by him, and was concerned for the man. At least they were alright.

When inside, Sherlock immediately laid John on the sofa that was conveniently placed on the opposite side to the windows beside the largest radiator. Sherlock fell to the floor beside the sofa, leaning his back against it. He was breathing heavily, mostly due to the aftershock of the ordeal, but also marginally because of the recent closeness with the man he had been so desperately but secretly in love with for far too long.

The relaxation period was cut short by him remembering the duvets. He stood up and turned to John. "Give me a minute." He quickly rushed out of the room and down the corridor, observing all the doors to refresh his memory of the room he had found. Upon reaching Mary's room, he had the give a sympathetic look; the woman had just lost her fiancée. But he couldn't let that get in the way of his mission.

John's eyes widened as Sherlock left him, worried he wouldn't come back, and closed his eyes, not wanting to think of it or anything else, wanting to cling to things being alright. Soon enough, Sherlock did indeed come back.

Two minutes later, Sherlock walked back into John's room, his body not visible behind the three duvets he had acquired. "Here." he said, placing them one by one flat on top of John. "This should work. Although, I'm no doctor."

He smiled fondly in relief, and grinned thankfully and tiredly as duvets were laid upon him. "I think so," he murmured, looking up at Sherlock, "But..." He trailed off, twiddling his thumbs. "Please...could you lay with me?" He meant this in a chaste manner, simply craving the touch, the love and anchor that it would be alright.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and stared in confusion for a moment. "You want me to- right. Okay."

Sherlock climbed onto the arm of the sofa, disregarding that it was probably quite an expensive piece of furniture, and flopped down between the back and John. John smiled as Sherlock moved in behind him, on the couch, and he scooted over a bit to give Sherlock some room as he got comfortable. Soon after though, he curled up into the man, nuzzling into him and holding onto his clothes for reassurance even.

"Thanks," John murmured, looking up at him. "I just...it's much warmer...and I didn't want you to be cold too and, well...I really like just...oh, you know." He could feel himself slowly warm up, almost burning as blood flow got started up again.

"I hope you realise that I'm going to steal the duvet as well. You do still have my coat." Sherlock moved slightly to pick up the thick material below him, snuggling underneath it.

He had to pull up the duvet to cover the smile that was unfortunately evident on every aspect of his face. Many times he had dreamed about, and even longed for, this, but it actually happening? He hadn't believed it would ever. And now that it was, he found it very hard to contain his happiness. Maybe it was worth all the pain if it meant this was the outcome? He certainly knew that he would go through the worst it took if the result was anything like this.


End file.
